


i speak in smoke signals and you answer in code

by cybercrow (clockworkcorvids)



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Human Revolution
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Augmentations (Deus Ex), Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, Deus Ex: Human Revolution Spoilers, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, False Identity, Friends to Lovers, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Not Canon Compliant, Organ Theft, Pain, Slow Burn, Whump, corporate sanctioned reconnaissance, coworkers who pretend to hate each other to lovers, i killed dxhr canon for my own cruel (gay) agenda, lots of hurt and i promise there's comfort too, near death experiences as a vessel for talking about emotions, no beta we die like men, sarif is kind of a bastard, thats a horrible tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22820758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkcorvids/pseuds/cybercrow
Summary: For Francis, working with Jensen usually means late nights in his office lit only by the glow of his computer monitors, more than a healthy amount of caffeine, and losing his sense of reality to the voice on the other end of his Infolink. Not this, where they’re physically next to each other, and they’re both in the same amount of danger. Where their roles are almost switched, Jensen taking his turn to be the one on the back end of things, Pritchard taking his turn to get on his feet and move.Or: Pritchard and Jensen have to deal with Harvesters, everything (predictably) goes to hell, and they both realize somewhere along the way just how emotionally stunted they are.
Relationships: Adam Jensen & David Sarif, Adam Jensen & Francis Pritchard, Adam Jensen/Francis Pritchard, Francis Pritchard & David Sarif
Comments: 20
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [i speak in smoke signals and you answer in code](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23232616) by [drunken_hedgehog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunken_hedgehog/pseuds/drunken_hedgehog)



> this is my first actual dx fic and i wrote the snippets that spawned this last august so i apologize for the inevitable mess
> 
> some continuity things - 
> 
> yes the harvesters are technically confined to hengsha but im sure there are similar groups in detroit and i didnt feel like coming up with a different name when ive already been given all the content i needed.  
> also, the timeline is a mess on this one. given adam's augmentations and the state of his relationships with sarif and pritchard at the beginning of this, i guess some of the early bits of hr would need to have happened, but after that, the canon compliancy kinda just dies. feel free to resent me for this but also keep in mind that a) im just here to have fun and b) ive probably never once written something that's fully canon compliant in my life. not sorry :^
> 
> big thanks to the awbb and church of the machine god discord servers for moral support, questionable memes, and giving me too many eyes emoji to count....not sure what im gonna do with all these eyes, tho (i'll probably make more body horror, let's be honest)
> 
> title is from [have to explode](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKudKA9LvZ0) by the mountain goats, which is one of my favorite songs. it's even sadder than no children, so if you want to cry, have a listen to this absolute masterpiece!
> 
> hope yall enjoy! ♡

The downward spiral starts with something along the lines of “Pritchard, we need to talk.” Coming out of David Sarif’s mouth, that could mean something terrible, or something fantastic, or anything in between, but it most likely means something fantastic―for Sarif, at least.

For Pritchard, who had been in the middle of his usual Friday-morning multitasking, juggling the champion’s breakfast that was a couple of Cyberboost Proenergy bars along with the blackest coffee he could find and too many unread emails, it’s closer to unwelcome. Not that he’s going to say that to Sarif’s face, though. There’s a line between acceptable levels of snark and those that will get you fired on the spot, and Francis Pritchard has been walking this line for years.

Pritchard takes one last sip of his coffee, grimacing not so much at the bitterness as at how uncomfortably hot it is, and blinks at Sarif from under a few strands of hair that have escaped his ponytail. He hadn’t gone back to his apartment the night before, as is his custom more often than not. There’s a Pritchard-shaped indentation permanently carved into his office chair, and it’s been there for a long time. Judging by the fact that Sarif has come to his actual office, instead of just summoning him via email or Infolink, he must have a seriously important reason to talk to Pritchard, and that alone makes the head of cybersecurity’s stomach turn (although this also may have something to do with his chronic and acute lack of proper nutrition).

He shifts in his chair, which achieves absolutely nothing in terms of comfort but has the effect of making him look like he was paying attention.

“Your office or mine?” he asks. 

Sarif closes the door behind him, which answers that question. The moment at which it becomes clear that Sarif is going to sit down for this conversation is the same moment that Pritchard realizes he was screwed. He has no idea what’s going to come out when his boss opens his mouth, but he knows it can’t possibly bode well for him. 

“It has come to my attention,” begins Sarif, crossing his legs and leaning back in the chair that he’s borrowed, “that a rogue group of anti-augmentation ‘activists’ have made themselves known just across the border.”

Pritchard digs around in his memory. “The group in Windsor?” He’s heard word of them before, both at work and through his less official lines of communication. “I was under the impression that they weren’t our problem, what with being under the jurisdiction of the Canadian government and all that.”

Sarif smiles grimly. 

_ Ah, there it is, the classic Sarif, _ Pritchard thinks, simultaneously feeling a surge of relief that Sarif can’t read his thoughts. He’s been getting better at holding his tongue in recent years, but he still says things he shouldn’t sometimes.

“That impression would have been right,” is Sarif’s reply, “until yesterday night. They’ve branched out, and it looks like they’re trying to establish themselves in Detroit.”

Something begins to boil in Francis’ gut―maybe disgust, and maybe the coffee. As tense as things have been getting in recent years, Detroit is at least partially Sarif Industries’ turf, and it certainly isn’t going to be a stomping ground for any more anti-aug groups. Not if Pritchard has something to say about it, which he certainly does, and he can see even in the low light of his office that the glint in Sarif’s eyes says he knows Pritchard feels that way.

“Alright, I take it you want me to do something about them. Is this under the radar, or officially sanctioned?”

“Officially sanctioned, at least for now. I’ve obtained... _ intel _ that suggests they may be working against us in a corporate sense. Trying to bring us down. Obviously, we know it’s because of their stance on augmentation technology, but on paper, it’ll be more about what they’re doing than why they’re doing it.” The way Sarif says this, so vague and almost threatening, leaving more questions than answers, makes Francis think that this isn’t entirely legal, but that’s also nothing new―as evinced by the way he doesn’t even flinch at this realization. He’s sure everything he needs to know will come in the mission agenda he’ll no doubt be transferred at some point soon, and the rest will just be the bits Sarif thinks he  _ doesn’t _ need to know. He goes in for a little more than he maybe should, though, just to see if he can.

“And what exactly  _ are  _ they doing?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in a way he knows will make Sarif sigh in exasperation.

“They’re posing as a cutesy little startup with human rights in mind. But...they’re working with Harvesters, as far as I’m aware.”

This makes Pritchard’s blood run cold. He’s seen the damage Harvesters can do before, albeit only secondhand, and even the knowledge conveyed through field reports and grainy crime scene photos is enough to strike something approaching fear into his heart.

Then comes the next obvious question: “How are we going to go about this? I assume you’ll send Jensen in―” 

Pritchard cuts himself off, realizing the obvious logical fault in his statement. “Well, you can’t exactly send Jensen in, can you? He can’t hide his augs  _ and _ do everything that needs to be done” He, too, leans back in his chair, brows furrowed in thought. Sarif seems to have come prepared, though, because he wastes no time in formulating a response to this conundrum. 

“We’re sending you in. You’re capable of getting the intel you need, and your augs aren’t externally obvious.”

“With all due respect, if they scan me, I’m fucked.”

“They’re not as well set up here as in Windsor. They don’t have as many resources, which isn’t saying much considering the fact that last I checked, the group doesn’t even have an official name yet. They’re going as the Windsor Pro-Humanity Group, but that doesn’t really have much of a ring to it.” A pause. A breath. “Anyways. You just need to get in, get proof that they’re working with Harvesters, and get out.”

Pritchard rolls his neck, which cracks in at least three places. He considers his options, which aren’t great. Knowing Sarif, if he refuses, the man will have at least three other reasons Pritchard should do this. He’s nothing if not headstrong, and Pritchard hasn’t put up with it this long (pushing back when he feels it’s necessary, of course) only to be even more stubborn now. Maybe this won’t be so bad. He could get a few thousand extra steps in, maybe some stretching too; he knows he fucking needs it. 

“Alright,” he says, relenting slightly, “but what if it becomes a fight?”

“That’s where Jensen comes in.”

“Hold on,” Pritchard says, leaning forward again, fixing Sarif with a gaze equal parts perturbed and confused. “I thought we weren’t sending him in.”

“Correction: We aren’t sending him in to do his usual job. He’s going to be your bodyguard, but he’s going to hide his augs too. Both of you are going to be playing unfamiliar roles, but I trust that you’ll work well together despite it. You’re both adaptable and skilled.”

Pritchard isn’t sure what’s worse―the prospect of this case in general, or the fact that he’s going to have to work with Jensen for it. Sarif is right, they work well together, but that’s when the status quo―Jensen crawling around in vents getting those polymer hands dirty, and Pritchard on the other end of the Infolink―stays intact. This is the furthest possible thing from the status quo that Pritchard can possibly imagine, and he’s considered some scenarios that are pretty out there before. (These scenarios are also on the list of things he’d never mention to Sarif’s face.)

“So, let me get this straight,” Pritchard says, mentally filing away a joke about how he’s never gotten anything straight once in his entire life, “you want  _ Jensen _ and I to go undercover, in an  _ anti-aug group _ , to get proof that they’re working with  _ Harvesters _ .”

Sarif doesn’t even flinch. “Yes. You’re not the most familiar face when it comes to Sarif Industries, so you’re going to be playing the role of an eccentric multimillionaire, with anti-aug sympathies, interested in a financial partnership with the new group in town. You’re going to be going in and touring their building with your bodyguard, getting an idea of what they’ve been up to, and then you’re going to meet with their leaders.”

He pauses, no doubt for dramatic effect. 

“I hope you’ve written all this down,” Pritchard interjects, to which Sarif nods and dismissively waves a hand. 

“Yes, of course. You seem busy, anyhow, and you should probably get all the mundane tasks you need to do out of the way before you start on this. It may be rather time-consuming, depending on how things go.” That, too, is classic Sarif, assuming that his personal pet projects come before everything up to and including actual work being done for his company. This is important, though, if the reality of the situation is anything like what Sarif described to Pritchard, and Pritchard is frankly too jaded at this point in his career to complain about it.

“Would you rather I just send you the file?”

Pritchard taps his skull before he can regret it. “Direct transfer through my Infolink, if you please.”

They both grimace, and the hairs on the back of Pritchard’s neck stand up a moment later, followed in close succession by bile rising in his throat and a sharp pressing feeling between his eyes. 

The file has been transferred, and Sarif’s work here is evidently done, because he’s standing up and flashing a smile at Pritchard. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Pritchard doesn’t have it in him to be angry.

“You can take the weekend to look over it and set things up. You go in on Monday.”

Pritchard is going to be taking the weekend to take a slightly spite-fueled nap, if things go the way he wants them to. 

“I’ll do that.”

There are no formalities exchanged between them as Sarif leaves Pritchard’s office, once again closing the door behind him, and this is the norm. This is the status quo that they have. If Pritchard and Jensen’s status quo, arguably the most important Pritchard has, is being upset so quickly and so violently, he wonders how long the others in his life will last. How long will it be before things change too much for him to pull the pieces back together into their original form?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the inciting incident.

Pritchard spends his weekend memorizing the agenda Sarif sent him, and he can’t help but feel that he’s in some shitty knockoff of a James Bond movie. It’s not like he’s going to delete the file, or dramatically burn a handwritten letter with encrypted instructions. No, he just makes sure he knows what he’s in for, because one of the few constants between his usual missions and this anomaly is the fact that he wants to minimize the element of surprise for his side. That means covering all his bases, knowing  _ exactly _ what he’s going in aiming to do, what the possible setbacks could be, and more. 

He  _ also _ takes a slightly spite-fueled nap, as he’d promised himself he would, but mostly because he knows he needs to be on top of things come Monday, and he can only do so much to cure his sleep deprivation―which, like his less-than-ideal nutrition, is both chronic and acute―on such short notice. 

Monday morning comes around, and he’s not sad to make the trek from his apartment to work, because his office feels more like home than that shitty apartment ever has. And, come to think of it, it’s not like Pritchard really  _ has _ anywhere to call home, not these days. He hasn’t had that in a long time. His apartment is just a place to keep the things he can’t keep at the office, the few personal effects he has and plenty of technical nonsense, and more than that, it’s a place to sleep. An in-between. And yet, somehow, the couch in his office manages to be infinitely more comfortable than the bed―yes, an  _ actual _ bed, not just a mattress on the floor like he had for a few years at one point―in the apartment.

Now is not the time to be reflecting on his deep-seated issues, though, so Pritchard swallows his bitterness and focuses, as he usually does, on what needs to get done for the greater good. Thinking about something that’s bigger, and more pressing, than any of his personal problems, helps him. Well, it probably doesn’t help his mental health, especially not in the long run, but it hasn’t failed him yet. 

And anyways, there are far more distracting things on his plate once he reaches Sarif’s office just before the crack of dawn. Case in point: Adam Jensen is standing there, and Francis’ first thought is that he looks... _ normal _ . That’s subjective, of course, but after a moment, Francis pinpoints what’s off about Jensen’s appearance. It’s not just the way he’s dressed, more laid-back than usual in dark tactical pants and a turtleneck, with leather gloves covering his augmented hands and a pair of sunglasses hanging from his collar―no doubt to hide the fact that the shades framing his eyes are, like the eyes themselves, implanted into his organic body.

Pritchard thinks the thing that  _ really _ throws him off is the skin. If nothing else, the hexagonal indentation in Jensen’s forehead is usually the number one dead giveaway that he’s augmented, but all traces of it are gone today. It’s probably just some simple special effects makeup, a little bit of fake skin and glue and concealer―Francis doesn’t know shit about makeup, except when it comes to eyeliner―but it does the job remarkably well. If not for his nuclear irises, and the black brackets framing his eyes, and the fact that they’ve known each other for so long, Pritchard wouldn’t know the man was augmented. 

“Ah, there you are,” Sarif says from behind his desk, and Pritchard realizes that he’s been standing in the doorway, staring, for an indeterminate but hopefully not embarrassingly long amount of time. “Come in.”

Pritchard casts a sidelong glance at Jensen as he enters, and he’s slightly surprised that the man’s only reaction is to smile slightly at him. The expression is distant, coming a moment too late. It’s likely he hasn’t gotten much sleep either, and he has every reason to be out of it. Francis does too, but he also knows that neither of them can afford that. Not now. He hopes Jensen snaps out of it, and he almost lets out a snarky comment like he usually would, but he can’t muster the energy for it. Contrary to what some people might think about him, his seemingly constant tenacity and edge takes energy, which makes it an even worse coping mechanism than it already would be on its own.

“I assume you’ve already briefed Jensen on the same things you briefed me on?” he says instead, addressing Sarif.

His boss simply nods in response. “Yes. I couldn’t reach both of you at the same time on Friday, but I hope you can coordinate a bit now before you go in. I know it’s short notice, but, well.” He waves a hand in the air, dismissive as usual. “You know how schedules can be.”

He doesn’t wait for either of them to reply before turning on his heel, towards the images projected on the massive array of screens that takes up one wall of his office.

“Pritchard,” Sarif begins, “you’re now Porter Lambert, eccentric multimillionaire. He doesn’t exist, of course, but if anyone bothers to check his background, they’ll find some webpages conveniently backing up your story.” He mostly says this for Jensen’s benefit; Francis already knows this, because he was the one who took Porter Lambert’s backstory and worked it into the right combination of social media profiles and portfolio websites. Better yet, Jensen isn’t the only one in costume―although Pritchard is certainly far less likely to be recognized by face, he still has a role to fill, and his appearance is part of making that role look convincing. Consequently, his usual ponytail contains more hair gel than he has used in the rest of his life combined, and he’s wearing a charcoal grey blazer over his usual white turtleneck. In his opinion, the blazer makes him look like a secretary, and the hair makes him look like a high-end drug dealer, and this is not a great combination.

“Jensen, you’re now Aaron Johnson, a private security hire from Sharp Edge. You’re allowed to get away with a little more secrecy than Lambert could pull off, so we didn’t cover your tracks quite as well. You have all the basic fake ID documents you’ll need if someone questions you, but you’re probably going to have to emphasize the secrecy that comes with your job if anyone presses you.”

Jensen, leaning against the wall opposite the projector, arms crossed over his chest in a way that simultaneously conveys casual familiarity and discomfort, nods in response. Francis isn’t sure whether to dread the crisis that will no doubt be upon them soon, or to lean into the adrenaline rush and sense of determined accomplishment that will come with pulling this off―he treats it as a  _ when _ and not an  _ if _ because he knows they  _ have _ to pull this off, if they don’t want to sacrifice their lives in an attempt to do so.

Spurred on by the lull in conversation, Pritchard finds his wandering gaze drawn to the window. In the distance, past the Detroit skyline, he can see the sky beginning to lighten. He thinks of Icarus―it’s hard not to, what with all the metaphors that Sarif so loves, what with the gold and black and the indelible fact that Sarif thinks he can play a god. He thinks that Icarus only fell once, but the sun keeps rising and falling, every day. Maybe Apollo wept, or maybe he laughed―no matter the case, he kept going. Maybe the real lesson of Icarus is that a single day, so inconsequential in the vast span of time, can change everything.

“Is there anything else we need to cover?” Jensen asks. He looks tired, remarkably so. He looks as if he’s buzzing with energy, but he doesn’t want it; he  _ shouldn’t _ have it, as if he didn’t sleep for three consecutive nights and then compensated by downing three consecutive energy drinks.

“I trust you’ve both covered the files I sent you, so no. You won’t have any trackers on you, though; we’re going to be in the dark once you’re in there. You’re going to have to rely on each other.”

“Of course we will,” Francis says before he can think any better of it, trying not to sound as utterly dead as he feels. One, two, even three good nights of sleep can’t even begin to touch his fatigue, and that’s not to mention his constant, lingering emotional exhaustion.

Sarif zeroes in on him. “Is that going to be a problem?” Surprisingly, he doesn’t sound threatening, but rather genuinely curious; then again, he knows Pritchard well enough to know that he should take everything coming out of the tech’s mouth with a grain of salt and then some.

Pritchard scrubs his face with the back of one hand, groaning under his breath. “I should hope not. This is risky, but it’s not like we have any better options. You need someone who doesn’t have to go the extra mile to hide their augs, but I’m not legally authorized to put bullets in people and you can snap me like a twig if you wanted, so Jensen still can’t escape the curse of going into a building full of people who want him dead.”

There’s an awkward pause. “Well, that was rather... _ candid _ ,” Sarif says after a moment, sounding―to his credit―only mildly shaken. Jensen looks like he’s stifling genuine amusement, which is so rare that Pritchard doesn’t even know what to say to it. (Congratulations, you’re  _ not _ a statue incapable of externalizing any feelings, that is, if you even have those in the first place? Congratulations, your trauma-induced emotional constipation is starting to wear away just in time for life to rip you a new one?) 

“Pritchard is right,” Jensen says (and completely unprompted, too!), which might be more rare in itself than his smile, or even an Adam Jensen Laugh™. “It’s messy, but it makes sense. He gets his hands dirty, I stay under the radar and step in if he needs some muscle on his side.” At this, he looks out the window too, gazing off into something only he knows for a moment, eyes distant.

“It’s getting late,” he says, sounding strangely resigned. “We should get started.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s 2 am and i already wrote the entire fic so i figured i might as well just post it instead of making people wait

The sunrise finds Pritchard and Jensen walking side by side in the streets of Detroit, slipping into their new personas as if into an ice bath.

Neither of them had expected to be in on this together, not like this, but they can make it work. Francis knows they’re both out of their element in different ways; Jensen put in a situation a little more laid-back and civilian than he’s used to, Francis in a situation a lot more hands-on than he’s used to. That’s not to say they don’t know what they’re doing, but when it comes to working together, this isn’t what either of them is used to. For Francis, working with Jensen usually means late nights in his office lit only by the glow of his computer monitors, more than a healthy amount of caffeine, and losing his sense of reality to the voice on the other end of his Infolink. Not this, where they’re physically next to each other, and they’re both in the same amount of danger. Where their roles are almost switched, Jensen taking his turn to be the one on the back end of things, Pritchard taking his turn to get on his feet and move.

It’d be an interesting challenge if their lives weren’t at stake, but then again, their lives are always at stake working for Sarif. Even Pritchard, who usually works from the relative safety of his office, puts himself in danger routinely―the world of cyberspace has just as many terrors in store as the city itself.

Orange and gold light glints off shiny glass windows, illuminating everything in sharp detail as they walk. Francis chances a bit more than a glance at Jensen’s face beside him, and almost regrets it―he can see every little crease and wrinkle in the man’s skin, all the little nicks from scars that haven’t completely healed over the years, and it reminds him just how  _ human _ Jensen is. Yes, despite it all, and maybe  _ because _ of it all, Jensen is very much human. Not in the traditional sense, not in his physically beating heart, but in the heart that people refer to when they say  _ follow your heart _ . 

Francis sighs quietly as he returns his gaze to the sidewalk in front of him―it’s too early in the morning for philosophy. This gesture doesn’t escape Jensen, though, and he looks sidelong at Francis. His implanted shades are retracted, but his eyes are still hidden by a pair of regular sunglasses, cleverly shaped to hide his implants from all angles while still looking altogether normal and, honestly, rather fashionable. His expression is as unreadable as usual.

“You doing alright, Pritchard?” he asks, and Pritchard scowls at nothing in particular. Part of him appreciates the gesture, but part of him (indeed, a resounding majority of his cognitive processes) just wants to fucking get this over with already.

“What, are you my therapist now? Bodyguard isn’t enough for you?” Francis grumbles, and he decides that he can blame his cruelty on the fact that a) this mission is a fucking nightmare in principle, and will probably be in worse in practice, b) it’s a Monday fucking morning of all times, and c) he’s trying to get in character. Those factors certainly contribute to his bitterness, but he knows his behavior is also a manifestation of his deeper issues with his own feelings. 

And once again, it’s far too early in the morning― _ Monday _ morning―to be getting philosophical, and Pritchard kind of wants to take a detour to the nearest coffee shop and drown his sorrows in caffeine, but that’s not going to benefit anyone in the long run.

To his surprise, Jensen’s response is to snort. It’s not a laugh by a far cry, not even a chuckle, but it’s more emotion than he usually shows, and that makes two (2) entire demonstrations of humor in the last hour. Fuck, there’s a  _ lot _ to unpack there, and Pritchard really needs to get out more if he’s psychoanalyzing his coworker.

Jensen has thrown on a smart-looking black jacket, something between a blazer and a tactical jacket, over his turtleneck, and he stuffs his hands into its pockets.

“I’m just looking out for you. Returning the favor, if you will.”

Francis’ head is spinning. He wonders, distantly, if he’s going to snap awake in a cold sweat and find that this was all some horrific conglomeration of a fantasy dream and a sleep-deprivation-induced nightmare hallucination. He wonders why Jensen is being so  _ calm _ , so  _ kind _ , so completely fucking nonchalant, and he realizes simultaneously that the vast majority of his experience with the man has come when Jensen is in some or other life-and-death situation. This isn’t exactly going to be a nice little walk in the park either, but if they don’t blow their cover, there’s a high chance nobody will even get shot, and that alone makes it more casual than...probably  _ any _ of Pritchard and Jensen’s past interactions.

Francis realizes that he’s taken too long to respond when, at his side, Jensen sighs deeply. The man’s chest practically heaves (wow, he’s  _ jacked _ , and of course everyone knew that, but it’s a lot more apparent when he isn’t hiding his center of mass behind one of those huge flowy trench coats). 

“If it makes your fragile sense of ego feel better, it’s my duty as a coworker to watch out for your health and safety. Sarif Industries can’t run the way it should without you, and neither can this mission.”

Well then. Pritchard hadn’t been aware that Jensen is operating off of something  _ other _ than his sense of duty when it comes to him, but Jensen’s…―is it a cover story?―whatever it is, it’s  _ true _ , and delving into the unspoken assumptions behind it is far too much to unpack right now. 

Maybe later, if they make it out of this without any major hitches in the plan, they can talk. Maybe, Francis thinks, somewhere deep in the recesses of his guilty brain, they can move past the mutual sense of vitriol that has punctuated their relationship for as long as they’ve known each other―a feeling, which, given recent events and some time to reflect, Francis has decided might be needless. Safe, yes, but nothing is truly safe in Pritchard’s life, and nothing is constant, and if something blossoms quietly in his chest at hearing Jensen almost laugh, that’s his own business and nobody else’s.

They round a corner. Francis throws up a hand to shield his eyes as the sun glances off an oncoming building, blinding him. Jensen’s shades can’t possibly be enough to protect his eyes, but then again, the eyes themselves don’t need quite as much UV protection as biological ones would. He’s probably squinting, anyways, from the way he furrows his brows.

There’s a sign on the building, and it catches the attention of both of them. It’s nothing flashy, just utilitarian, and it looks like the people responsible for the sign have only rented part of the building. 

“Windsor Pro-Humanity Group,” Jensen reads out loud as he stops walking. Pritchard stumbles, almost bumping into him, and he jolts again at Jensen’s arm snaking out to grab his own bicep. It’s a surprisingly gentle grip even with the leather gloves, although those are a bit unwieldy, and Francis surprises  _ himself _ by not instantly jerking away. Instead, he blinks at Jensen, whose expression is  _ still _ infuriatingly unreadable―Pritchard’s own deer-in-headlights expression and a whole lot of reflected sunlight are all he can see when he looks into Jensen’s shades―and relaxes.

Something passes between them, unspoken. A buzzing electricity, hairs standing up on the back of Pritchard’s neck, half-formed words bumping around in his throat. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, as Jensen’s hand slowly, almost hesitantly, returns to the depths of his pockets. He could swear the man’s shoulders are tensed, bunched up under the coat, but he can’t really tell, maybe it’s just his imagination, and he has other things to focus on right now.

Not knowing what else to say, he turns his attention back to the sign. “Real creative name, huh?”

Jensen eyes the sign. Part of Pritchard wants to see what his real expression is, under those sunglasses. 

“Yep,” he says. “It’s not like  _ Aaron Johnson _ is much better, though.”

Pritchard snorts. “Shall we go in?

“Of course.”

Pritchard can’t see his face, because he takes the lead as they walk towards the building, but he swears Jensen―sorry,  _ Johnson _ ―is smirking as the man opens the door for him.

“You first,  _ Mr. Lambert _ ,” he says, and Francis was right, he  _ is _ smirking.

“Mr. Lambert, I presume,” are the first words out of the receptionist’s mouth just a moment later as their entrance is spotted, and Francis has to hold back laughter, because he’s Porter fucking Lambert now―that’s such a stupid name, he thinks, not that his actual name is much better―and it’s time for serious business.

From there, things pass in a blur. Now that the initial shock is over with, Pritchard finds it disturbingly easy to slip into his new persona, and even with a touch of dramatic flair as he gets used to it. The ‘eccentric multimillionaire’ facade is a little too pretentious, even for him―he may be a bastard and a half, but he’s not  _ that _ kind of asshole. It’s mostly doable because he treats it like acting, like he’s an undercover spy just playing a role, which he  _ is _ , but he also doesn’t view himself as being nearly as cool and suave as most if not all of the fictional spies he can think of. 

The building tour starts off looking like it’s going to be immensely boring, but Francis is taking notes and making snapshots with his neural augs the whole time, and he’s ready to start recording when the time comes. Interestingly enough, the Windsor Pro-Humanity Group (he still thinks they need a better name, despite the way their tour guide blows it off as an inconsequential detail) operates all their corporate business―paperwork and cubicles, that’s the impression Francis is getting―out of this building, but (surprise!) they also own a lab and adjacent warehouse nearby where, according to the tour guide, they’ve been working on developing a ‘less invasive way of reversing augmentations’. He can practically feel the tension radiating off of Jensen at the way the guide leans in, a conspiratorial tone coming to their voice, at this. It doesn’t sit well with him, either, and he knows already that this lab is going to be their next destination, but he pretends nothing is wrong. He smiles and nods right on cue, always at the perfect moment, and he feeds the guide questions he knows will divert suspicion. It almost scares him how well he’s pulling this off―or, at least, how well he  _ thinks _ he’s pulling it off―because this is so far from anything he has wanted or will ever want to do with his life.

After what must have been at least an hour of walking through monochrome hallways that are too brightly lit, wherein Francis occasionally steals glances at the ever-stoic  _ Aaron Johnson _ , gets a workout of the facial muscles that control a very dry smile, and generally pretends to be interested in corporate bullshit, their little group returns to the lobby.

Francis is so, so very incomprehensibly tired. He wants to go home, and he doesn’t even really have anywhere to truly call home. If he hears one more thing about quarterly budget planning, or literally  _ anything _ interspersed with casual anti-aug sentiment, he’s going to slam his head into the nearest solid surface and hope he passes out upon contact. 

He bullshits his way through formalities, and he only really focuses on what’s being said and what’s happening once he’s found the moment to ask the real question he wants answers to.

“Is there anything else you’d like to see that you think might impact your decision to sponsor us, Mr. Lambert?” the tour guide asks, all empty smiles and neatly folded hands.

Pritchard pretends to consider. He strokes his chin, purses his lips, and shoots a thoughtful gaze at his ‘bodyguard’ that is met only with an expression vaguely saying  _ This one’s on you. _

“Actually,” he drawls slowly after a moment, feigning hesitation, “I’m interested in the lab you mentioned. I’m curious what sort of advances the group is delving into.”

The tour guide looks almost...embarrassed? (Almost like they know the conversation is edging into territory that could catch them in a lie, Pritchard thinks, holding back a smile of grim satisfaction.)

The tour guide smiles rather awkwardly. “Of course. It’s not much, I’ll admit, mostly just theoretical things, nothing that’s actually gotten far off the ground.”

Something clicks in Pritchard’s brain. He folds his arms over his chest, and grins widely. This time, it’s real, although maybe not borne of the same emotions his present company thinks he’s feeling.

“That’s good, then,” he says. “All the better for me to find out what I’ll be putting my money into, especially if I can fund some potentially useful work that would otherwise be collecting dust in a lab notebook.” He has a suspicion that said  _ work _ is just Harvesters stripping people of their augs and sending their corpses to collect dust, but he’s certainly not about to voice that thought.

The tour guide falters for a moment, and then smiles the classic corporate smile at him, the same smile he remembers from a million billboard ads that were old when he was a child. Some things never really age into obsolescence, he supposes.

“Perfect,” is the response he receives, to his simultaneous relief and dismay. “If you have time, I can procure a cab to send you and your bodyguard down there right now for a tour. It’d be rather impromptu, but―”

Pritchard is getting impatient, so he does what eccentric multimillionaire Porter Lambert would do, and flicks one hand in the air as he cuts the tour guide off. “It’s fine,” he says, “that’ll do. It seems prudent to get all the preliminary information out of the way in one go.” 

What he  _ wants _ to say is  _ I want to get this shitshow over with as soon as possible, and preferably without a body count attached to things _ , but apparently, he  _ is _ capable of keeping some thoughts to himself from time to time, if he really tries.

The tour guide smiles again, hands still neatly folded behind their back, practically reeking of fake corporate happiness and empathy.

“Wonderful. We’ll make it worth your while, Mr. Lambert. Now, if you’ll wait here for a few moments while I call a cab.”

With that, the tour guide is gone, leaving Pritchard and Jensen to their own devices. Jensen is making no secret of the way his gaze darts around the room, no doubt using his augs to take in details the average human would never notice, let alone be capable of picking up on. Even behind the sunglasses, Pritchard can spot the way the man’s head tilts slightly, and the way he seems to stare straight ahead is just a little too out of character in the current situation for Francis to believe that the other man is just zoning out.

He crosses his arms again, and leans a little closer to Jensen than he would normally be strictly comfortable with, not particularly caring this one time because a) they’re putting on an act, and b) none of their other colleagues are here to poke fun at either of them. Not that Pritchard knows exactly  _ why _ someone would make fun of this, but that might just be him projecting again. Not something he needs to dwell on right now.

“I want your honest opinion,” he says under his breath, “do you think this is worth my while?”

Jensen’s response is low, even raspier than his usual voice. “I don’t know about you, Mr. Lambert, but it’s worth my time if you think it’s worth yours.”

Well,  _ that _ certainly implies... _ something  _ about their relationship. Regardless of broader implications, though, there’s a carefully constructed message beneath what, to an outsider, would sound perfectly innocuous― _ It might not be worth Porter Lambert’s time, but I think it’s worth Francis Pritchard’s time, and if you follow this lead I’ll follow you too. _ And, come to think of it, that implication might be deeper than their personas if it doesn’t just apply to Porter Lambert and Aaron Johnson.

“Well said, Aaron,” Pritchard says, smirking at the way Jensen obviously fights to hide a grimace at the fake name. Part of him wonders, were he to call the man  _ Adam _ on some occasion, instead of the usual  _ Jensen _ or  _ asshole _ , how he would react. This train of thought, of course, quickly and firmly dead-ends itself on the executive decision that being in close proximity to Jensen for longer than five minutes at a time has dredged up some interesting revelations, and also that this is all very inconvenient, because Francis knows this with full certainty, but he knows with even more certainty that they’re being watched right now.

Jensen crosses his arms, now, mirroring Francis. They’re both leaning on the closest wall, but Jensen has now angled himself slightly towards Pritchard, maybe subconsciously. 

“The lab is going to be interesting,” he says, “don’t you think?”

Pritchard glances past Jensen, eyeing the tour guide, who is deep in conversation with the secretary on the other side of the lobby. Both look more than a little stressed. The tour guide is wildly gesticulating. Part of Pritchard’s brain begins to devote itself to conjuring up vivid images of what the Harvesters could do to him or Jensen if their cover is blown.

“Yes,” he replies, “it most certainly will be.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is   
> -long  
> -gory  
> -where everything (predictably) goes to hell

The only similarity between the lab and the corporate building is that both tours start out seeming rather innocuous and quickly devolve. Other than that, the two places are as different as night and day, and it’s also worth noting that the state of things at the lab devolves a) a lot more quickly, and b) a lot farther.

Actually, there’s one other similarity, and it’s that both places are graced by hideous white walls and overhead lighting that makes Francis’ retinas burn out of his skull just a little bit, but that’s it. The taxi that takes he and Jensen (also accompanied by their increasingly skittish tour guide) to the lab drops them off in a rather beaten-down part of the city, and they’re led to what looks like it used to be a warehouse. The “Windsor Pro-Humanity Group” sign is conveniently missing from the building, which is completely unmarked, and Pritchard double-checks to make sure he took a clear photo of that with his neural augs. There’s a heavy churning sensation in his gut, one which has been present for a while but is becoming more and more apparent with every passing second, and he’s not sure how much of it is because of his lack of nutrition not sitting well with him and how much is because of this fucking  _ situation _ not sitting well with him. One thing’s for sure―he doesn’t like any of this, and despite being glad to finally get out and about for once, he’s starting to remember the appeal of working from the confines of his office all the time.

The tour guide, who has been rapid-fire texting someone on their cell phone for most of the ride, finally ceases this, and spares one last surreptitious glance at their screen as the group approaches the door. As if on cue, the sound of a lock rattling comes from inside, and then the door opens, revealing a lab-coat-clad woman. Her blonde hair, so blonde it’s almost yellow (sulfur? hair dye? unfortunate genetics? the world will never know), is slicked back into a perfectly straight ponytail that seems to capture every single strand of hair (this is a little extreme, even by Francis’ standards), and there’s something decidedly  _ wild _ in her bright blue eyes. Behind her, the lights flicker slightly, which doesn’t help reassure Francis at all.

“You must be Mr. Lambert. I’m Dr. Fisher, head of the WPH Group’s lab. Pleased to meet you.” 

Francis Pritchard automatically dislikes her, is  _ not _ pleased to meet her, and most definitely does  _ not _ trust her. Porter Lambert, on the flip side of things, puts out a hand and respectfully smiles at Dr. Fisher as she introduces herself. Her hand is uncomfortably sweaty when she shakes his, although that might just be Pritchard himself―hell, he’s anxious enough for it―and he can’t shake the feeling that she’s watching him, judging him, those eyes digging through his skull to see the augmentations within.

That also might just be Pritchard.

He decides that now would be a good time to start recording.

“So,” Dr. Fisher says as she ushers them into the lab, the tour guide walking back to the taxi in the distance, “I’ve heard you’re interested in financially supporting our endeavors.”

“That’s correct.” Pritchard gets the distinct impression that he is intruding on someone else’s territory; that, despite still being in Detroit, he is no longer on his own turf. Mostly because he isn't safe, not from the moment he walked through that door. He makes sure to look around, gaze taking in all his surroundings, his neural augs recording every little detail that might be important later.

“Any personal reasons?”

Now,  _ that _ has him taken aback, even more than he already was. He had been expecting some dodgy questions, but not this soon, and not so... _ outright _ . 

“If you’ll allow me to make an inference, I don’t think it’s too far a stretch to say that you and I share a similar set of beliefs when it comes to human nature.”

Dr. Fisher’s smile is uncomfortably flat. It reminds Pritchard of the face that Sarif makes on the rare occasion that something comes up which is above Pritchard’s pay grade, or on the (unfortunately much less rare) occasion that people pry for something Pritchard doesn’t feel like telling them and the tech manages to turn the question around.

Her smile changes to something almost venomous, widening, the corners of her lips pulled taut. 

“We can always come back to that,” she offers, in a tone that makes Pritchard realize that she really,  _ really _ wants to get her nitrile-gloved hands on some blackmail material pertaining to one Porter Lambert. Well, she won’t get it if he has anything to say about it, and even if she does, it certainly won’t be anything she can use against Francis Pritchard.

The group remains in silence as they pass through a hallway where lab coats and protective goggles are stocked up against one wall. 

“Goggles, please,” Dr. Fisher says. Pritchard complies, glad that he chose to wear his usual contact lenses today instead of the glasses he keeps around for emergencies; Jensen, meanwhile, is not so indulgent. 

“You too, sir,” she says, and Jensen visibly bristles. 

Pritchard lets out a long, sympathetic sigh, buying himself a few precious moments to think. 

“He takes privacy very, very seriously,” he says, “never takes off those sunglasses.”

“It’s just a safety concern,” Dr. Fisher says. 

Pritchard sighs again, leaning towards the doctor and lowering his voice as if this is a little secret between them. “And, you know, I heard he has horrible scars under those sunglasses, and since he won’t get augmented, he can’t do anything about them but hide them. Besides, there are certain conditions to his working with me, and those conditions extend to my working with you. I’m sure you can understand.”

A multitude of inarticulable expressions flash over Dr. Fisher’s face in a very short period of time.d of time. 

“Well,” she says finally, faltering, almost stumbling over that single word. “I suppose his sunglasses will suffice. But he’ll have to be extra careful. Sir―” she turns to face Jensen “―please make sure not to touch anything while you’re in the lab.”

The corners of Jensen’s lips don’t budge, not a twitch from his jaw, not even the slightest glimmer of expression as he nods slightly in response. He’s hardly spoken this entire time, and, well, Pritchard supposes he’s used to it after however many hours of crawling around in vents that shouldn’t be able to fit this hulk of a man, let alone a normal sized adult. It adds to the whole mysterious vibe he’s got going on, anyways, the energy of  _ tall, dark, and handsome who could snap you like a twig if he wanted _ . 

One gloved hand goes up, index finger out, and he pushes the sunglasses slightly upwards on the bridge of his nose. His head turns, and maybe it’s just Francis’ imagination, or maybe his hidden gaze meets Francis’ own.

Dr. Fisher, deciding that she’s held them in the hallway for long enough, heads towards a door at the end of the corridor. The door opens, and Pritchard has two immediate and jarring realizations the second he sees what lies beyond the threshold. One, he’s glad that he started recording when he did, and two, he is  _ very _ glad he has Jensen with him.

He doesn’t know what he expected, but this lab practically screams  _ Harvesters  _ at him. It looks standard enough for a low-budget lab of its kind, with a few semi-cluttered benches and cabinets pushed up against the walls, and part of the room (cordoned off by bright tape on the floor) is taken up by a massive filing cabinet and a cheap desk, which is even more of a mess than the benches. Every available surface seems to be littered with some sort of augmentation, in varying states of disassembly, most of them looking to be fairly outdated models as far as Pritchard can tell. A door is ajar on the opposite side of the room, and the muffled sound of what might be a conversation and might be television comes in through the crack.

The most interesting thing in the room, though, and the thing that makes Francis’ stomach turn, is the rectangular area in the center, from which everything else seems to simultaneously flow and be distinctly separated from―it’s walled off by an opaque plastic curtain, the sight of which immediately takes Francis back to memories of a particularly nasty case he dealt with back before he was hired by Sarif Industries. Organ harvesters selling their fare in cleverly disguised corners of the Internet, that was what that had been, except these harvesters aren’t quite dealing with the same sort of product.

Against his better judgment, Francis begins to walk towards the rectangle, and then turns instead to the nearest lab bench, where he pokes at a partially disassembled Infolink. It’s an older model for sure, and it looks clean enough that he thinks―he  _ hopes _ ―it’s never been inside someone’s skull. 

“Taking things apart to see how they work, are you?” he asks, looking up. Still hovering near the doorway, Dr. Fisher seems to jolt as she processes both his question and what he’s doing. 

“Don’t touch that!” she exclaims, hurrying towards him. He scoffs. 

“With all due respect, I’m not a fool; I’ve seen In...augmentations of this kind before.”

He almost slipped, he thinks, almost called it what it is, but he doesn’t think eccentric millionaire Porter Lambert, with his anti-augmentation beliefs and corporate background, would recognize an Infolink off the top of his head, especially not an older model that isn’t being flashed on billboards everywhere. 

He flashes a glance at Jensen, who is still remaining by the doorway, arms crossed defensively in classic Jensen fashion. He’s not sure which one of them has it worse―Jensen is surely having a hard time covering up all his augs, but Pritchard has had to put on a whole new persona for this. 

Regardless, he’s glad for the backup, even if their roles in this case are not what either of them is used to. 

Dr. Fisher less-than-gently nudges Pritchard away from the lab bench, and fixes him with a rather accusatory look. He keeps his expression carefully neutral, and says nothing as he backs away. He does make sure to let his gaze sweep across the bench, though, noting that there are a few augs in sight that almost definitely had to have been removed from a living person’s body. 

He begins to pace around the rectangle, which he still can’t see clearly into. He can make out blurs of color, which are meaningless without any supplemental information, but the air filtration system in the lab doesn’t seem to be enough to make the sections of curtain flap against each other. 

“What’s this?” he asks, as Dr. Fisher falls into step beside him. It’s a silly question; he already has a hunch as to exactly what it is, but he’s here to get proof―concrete evidence. The sooner the better; he gets the feeling Dr. Fisher is suspicious of him and Jensen, and if their cover is blown here, they’re bound to get into a fight that neither of them want. 

“Oh,” Fisher says, “that’s our, ah, human experimentation table. It sounds odd, I know, but the technology we’re developing to remove augmentations without the invasive surgery and Neuropozyne withdrawals that typically occur requires hands-on work at times.”

Pritchard shrugs. “I understand completely. I would like to see how you do things, though, if you don’t mind. I’m a visual learner, you see―no pun intended―”  _ hell _ , he hates himself for that, but he gets the feeling he’s about to really hate this whole situation in a few moments “―so I’d appreciate getting to really take in everything.”

“Oh, Mr, Lambert, I don’t think that’s a good idea, you’ll have to understand―”

Dr. Fisher’s voice dies in her throat as Pritchard, understanding full well the consequences of what he’s about to do but praying that he can hold onto his get-what-I-want multimillionaire persona for a few more moments, reaches forward and pulls back the curtain.

And there it is, in full clarity. A chair with restraints on it, and a human body strapped in. Whoever it is, it doesn’t take Francis long to deduce that they’re dead, and their skull is completely sliced open, the skin peeled back like in neurosurgery, but with far less care taken. Still-bloodstained augs, not-so-neatly carved out of the person’s brain, are lined up on a little metal table next to their corpse, and a man sits in a chair between the two, hunched over, face hidden behind a respirator and safety goggles. His head snaps up, accompanied by the sound of bones crunching―from the corpse,  _ not _ from the man―and he makes eye contact with Pritchard. His eyes are illuminated by the bright, focused light that is shining down from above and into his victim’s skull, and it makes him look almost feral. It’s like something out of a shitty horror movie―his lab coat is stained with blood both fresh and dried, as well as some other bodily fluids and chemicals Pritchard can’t identify upon first glance, and his nitrile gloves are absolutely  _ soaked _ . In his hands are a pair of tweezers and some other metal implement Pritchard doesn’t know the name of. No care has been taken to respect the person that he no doubt killed, or at least played a part in the death of. A mess has been made of their remains, and that mess appears to be steadily worsening. As Francis’ gaze follows the most recent trail of blood and brain matter, he quickly deduces that this person had bionic eyes, and that the man is currently working his way through the front of the skull to remove them, synthetic nerves and all. 

“Some―ah―some... _ pitfalls _ have been observed in our process,” Dr. Fisher says from behind Pritchard. 

He swallows, throat suddenly very dry. He thinks his hands, still on the curtain, might be shaking, and he really,  _ really _ wishes he were wearing gloves right now. His skin crawls, palms sweating, fingers itching, with the feeling of something grotesque, something wrong, something  _ dirty _ .

It’s at this moment that Jensen chooses to speak, letting out the first words that have come out of his mouth in this building. 

“What the  _ fuck? _ ” Jensen breathes, voice suddenly a lot closer than it should be, and Francis can’t make himself tear his gaze away from the scene before him, still holding the fearful gaze of the man in the lab coat, but he realizes in this moment that Jensen is right behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, now, but it’s not because of Jensen’s sudden presence, it’s because everything is falling together and falling apart so quickly, so violently, and they might yet make it out of here alive but this is so horrible, so disgusting, and Francis hates that he’s probably not going to be able to do anything about this except pass on the evidence to Sarif and hope that the proper authorities break down this place. 

Francis drops the curtain, straightens his spine, and smiles somewhat weakly at Dr. Fisher. 

“I see,” he says, and  _ fuck _ , he really fucking  _ does _ see. “Don’t mind my bodyguard―” he doesn’t feel like using that stupid fucking fake name right now, Jensen can be nameless for five more minutes if he’s already been doing it without making their hosts suspicious “―he’s...rather  _ candid _ at times.” 

He pauses for dramatic effect, and also so he has an opportunity to organize his racing thoughts.

“Well,” Pritchard concludes, “now that we’ve gone over  _ that _ , I think I’ve seen everything I need to.” Indeed, he most definitely has, and he’s still recording, but the footage from earlier is now being transferred to a secure computer back at Sarif Industries.

Dr. Fisher steps forward. Stops. Her mouth opens, forming a small  _ o _ , and then closes, and she takes in a sharp breath.

“I realize that our methods may seem... _ unsavory _ . But I trust this won’t change your decision?”

There’s a message hidden under the surface, there, and Francis can see it in her eyes, reflecting the too-bright lights.  _ If you change your decision, you’ll be the next one sitting in that chair. _

He works up the most grim smile he can possibly conjure, and he flashes his teeth at Dr. Fisher. 

“Of course not. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m not opposed to a little... _ creativity  _ when necessary.” Oh, he’s really feeling the nausea now. He wants to fucking vomit, scream, punch a wall, something,  _ anything _ to shake this sensation, because he virulently despises everything here, including what he’s having to pretend he believes―what he’s having to pretend he  _ is _ . 

Dr. Fisher seems to relax a bit, and she pokes her head into the rectangle again, murmuring something to the man in the lab coat about how he’s free to continue his work uninterrupted, and really, she’s terribly sorry for the intrusion, but this tour came at a moment’s notice and she didn’t have much time to prepare.

“Now,” she says, “I know you said you saw everything you needed, but there is one more thing I think you’d like.” 

With that, she strides across the room to what appears to be a jerry-rigged metal detector. She slaps it gently, not unlike a car dealer showing off the best in show of this year.

“As I’m sure you know, the average metal detector is capable of picking up on most augmentations, but they’re usually programmed not to sound any alarm for such things. We’ve made a few key changes to the programming of this detector to not only sound an alarm when an augmented individual walks through, but to pick up on augmentations that a normal metal detector  _ wouldn’t _ catch. For example, many neural augmentations would not be detected by an average scanner, but this? This will catch  _ everything _ . We’re planning to install these here at the lab and at our corporate centers in Detroit and Windsor once the design is perfected. This is most likely the first thing your money would go towards.”

She’s smiling. She’s fucking smiling at Pritchard, and he hates it.

He clasps his hands behind his back and examines the detector in more detail. It’s nothing special, really; he can already think of a few ways to make a device like this both cheaply and effectively. The only reason such things  _ don’t _ exist, at least not on the mainstream market, is because they would be illegal in most cases, and for good reason. An individual’s augmentations are part of their personal medical history and, consequently, are their own private business, as far as Pritchard is concerned. The only exception he can think of would be augs like the Typhoon, which aren’t medical so much as military, but Jensen isn’t exactly a great litmus test for what the  _ norm _ is when it comes to augs, and Pritchard still doesn’t feel like getting philosophical today. 

“How will that work?” he asks. “I imagine you’ll have to keep it reasonably discreet.”

Dr. Fisher grins in a way that Pritchard truly wants to describe as  _ evil _ , or at the very least  _ malicious, _ because he really can’t think of a better way to articulate that expression. 

“It’s simple. The alarm won’t be audible, at least not to anyone who has set it off. If an augmented individual passes through the detector, an alert will be sent to our building security, who will divert them from their planned path onto our property and detain them.”

_ And then bring them to the lab _ , Pritchard thinks. He nods, faking another smile. 

“Would you like a demonstration?” Dr. Fisher asks. “I have a stint in my heart, which isn’t exactly an augmentation, but will still set off the detector.” 

She frowns. “We still have to work out a few flaws in the detection system, what with necessary medical interventions and anti-human augs. There’s a rudimentary Neuropozyne detector, but we haven’t had the change to test enough to know if it works.”

Pritchard notices, out of the corner of his eye, that Jensen is staring directly at him. For once, he’s actually showing some emotion―his lips are curled downwards in what’s almost a scowl, though his mouth remains closed. He could be grimacing, and Pritchard thinks he probably is, because this woman is such a fucking hypocrite that it  _ hurts _ . 

“Well, I suppose I’d like to see,” he says, hopefully not too late, as he realizes that the conversation has come to an awkward standstill.

Dr. Fisher bows slightly before moving to stand between the two sides of the metal detector, and right on cue, a nearby computer monitor beeps loudly. She seems to flinch a little, as if realizing that she has something in common with  _ augmented individuals _ , and quickly makes to disable the alarm from the computer. 

“If you’ll look at this, although I suppose you can’t see it from here, the detector picked up on supposed augmentations, but no Neuropozyne. Now, why don’t one of you two try?”

Oh. Fuck. Shit. Hell. Every curse word in the book, and then some. Pritchard should have seen this coming. 

“I don’t think I will,” he says, thinking about the Neuropozyne that runs through his blood right now. “I have a hip replacement, and I imagine you’d like to see more than just false positives.”

She frowns. She’s suspicious, he knows it. “You’re a little young for a hip replacement, aren’t you?”

Francis is readying himself for things to go downhill, and  _ quickly _ , when he’s surprised by Jensen letting out a snort from next to him. It’s not a full laugh, not even close, but he’s grinning beneath the sunglasses. 

“You’d be surprised, Dr. Fisher,” he says. “Porter gets himself into all sorts of shenanigans when he’s not supervised. It’s probably the rich kid complex, you know. Thinking he can go around doing whatever he wants. He still doesn’t realize he’s not invincible.”

Pritchard blinks, attempting and failing to unpack all that in the span of a single breath, and then forces himself to laugh too, keeping the ruse going. He pointedly  _ doesn’t _ focus on the fact that those last few words actually  _ do _ apply to Jensen in reality, and that there have been too many times where the Infolink connection makes a descending spiral into static and Pritchard thinks Jensen’s facade of invincibility has finally broken down a little too much.

“Well, then why don’t you go, uh...sir?” She falters, not coming up with a name for the mysterious bodyguard of Porter Lambert, eccentric multimillionaire, and just weakly waves a hand at him. Pritchard’s heart stutters violently within his chest, and he resists the urge to press a finger to his neck, to search for the pulse he knows is there but still needs extra reassurance of.

Jensen doesn’t budge from where he stands. “I’d prefer not to. My medical history is my personal business.”

It is at this point that the situation begins to move downhill. Dr. Fisher crosses her arms and tilts her head, looking increasingly perturbed with every passing second. “Are you implying that you’re augmented, sir?”

“With all due respect,” Jensen replies, “I think you need to do some self-examination. You seem to be a bit fuzzy on the line between necessary augmentations and those which are, by your words,  _ anti-human _ .”

Dr. Fisher scoffs. “It’s simple. Any augmentation which requires Neuropozyne is anti-human.”

Well. That’s an argument Pritchard isn’t going to involve himself in right now. The issue of Neuropozyne is complicated, and in his opinion has more to do with the greed of biotech companies than the morals of the individuals who have to use it to stay alive.

Pritchard wishes, now more than at any other moment yet, that he could see Jensen’s eyes right now, that he could see the fire he knows is burning in those nuclear irises, the sheer righteousness. He knows Jensen feels it, because he feels it too.

And, to his surprise, Jensen turns to face him. Holds his chin high. Scowls a little bit. 

“I think it’s time we leave, Porter. We’ve seen everything we need.”

_ We _ , Pritchard thinks, with no coherent pretext attached to it. Just that one word, and then,  _ I wish he would call me my first name under  _ normal _ circumstances _ . Now is certainly not the time to be considering this, but that level of familiarity? It might not be so bad.

“I agree,” he replies, and he almost laughs at the panic in Dr. Fisher’s eyes as her gaze darts between the two of them.

“You’re―you’re still going to sponsor us, yes?”

Pritchard scoffs, rolling his eyes as he turns away and starts for the door they came in through. “Of course I will. You have to understand that I have a limited attention span, and this is foolish, and―” 

He stops short at a loud clattering noise―the man in the lab coat, hands bloodied and full of what might be gore and might be augs, has exited the rectangle and is making a run for it, out the door that the group had originally come through. A lock clicks as he goes, and it feels like time slows down, all the panic in Pritchard’s brain fading to become background noise, leaving nothing but the ominous ticking of time running out.

He takes another step, this time towards the other door, the one that is still ajar.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave,” Dr. Fisher says. 

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Pritchard says, “because if you want my money, you’re going to have to give me this one thing.”

She doesn’t try to stop him, and part of him realizes that this could be a trap, but that realization comes milliseconds too late as his hand meets the doorknob and a beeping starts up on the computer and, taking a closer look at the clutter surrounding him, he realizes there’s another metal detector cleverly hidden by this door. 

Three pairs of eyes simultaneously focus on the computer monitor, which is brightly proclaiming―this time, Francis is positioned where he  _ can _ see it―two things. 

One, Porter Lambert has what could be augmentations and could just be a hip replacement.

Two, Porter Lambert has Neuropozyne in his body, and quite a bit of it. 

“Fuck,” Pritchard says, frozen in his spot.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emergency surgery time ft. a shank

Before Pritchard can move, there’s a blur of white and yellow, unbloodied lab coat and sulfuric hair, and Jensen lets out a cry of surprise. 

Suddenly, it’s like Dr. Fisher is an entirely different person. Syringe in hand, she’s circling Jensen, taunting him, and she must know that his Sentinel―if she even knows that he  _ has _ one―hasn’t kicked in yet to reverse the effects whatever was in that syringe, because otherwise someone her size (at least, someone who is also in their right mind, which Francis severely doubts she is) would never try to come at Jensen like this. Jensen’s expression is unreadable through his shades, but Frank can tell he’s stumbling a bit, and if it comes down to a fight he might actually get hurt. He’d win, probably, but they don’t have time for this, and his hand is clutching his neck where the syringe went in, blood beginning to smudge just above the hem of his turtleneck, and now she’s shoved Jensen, and he’s stumbled back, and the alarm is still blaring, and Francis  _ still _ hasn’t moved, and he has had it  _ up to here _ with these fucking idiots thinking they can fuck with Jensen just because he’s visibly augmented. Frank knows what self-image issues are like, though not in the same way Jensen does, and he knows that Dr. Fisher and her so-called  _ colleagues _ are greedy and ill-motivated.

He finally finds his voice, and also finds the switchblade that’s been concealed within his blazer this entire time. 

“Hey, you asshole,” he says, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Dr. Fisher’s gaze flickers to Pritchard, still idling by the detector, and she seems to deem him  _ not _ a threat, because she shoves Jensen back by the chest again, and he must be really fucked up for how little he reacts.

Francis is going to have to look at Jensen’s Sentinel Health aug after this.

“This guy? Your bodyguard? The virus I gave him, he’s not gonna do a thing to me. He’s so out of it, he won’t notice a thing.” 

She turns towards Francis, dropping the syringe, and produces another from the depths of her lab coat. “You’re next.”

_ Virus _ ? So it’s not drugs. Francis doesn’t like that a bit. Nobody, and  _ certainly  _ not this asshole, messes with Jensen’s augs and takes advantage of him like that. He didn’t fucking memorize the blueprints of every stupid military augmentation Sarif decided to load the man up with just for some crazy pseudoscientist to make him put that knowledge to use.

He scowls. “What kind of virus?”

“Degenerative,” she says, smirking. “It’s going to get into all his augs, and it’s going to turn them off, one by one, leaving them ripe for the picking.” 

And then, she calls Jensen something she really shouldn’t have, especially not in front of Francis, insinuates what she’s going to do to Jensen’s augs, and to Jensen himself—she  _ really  _ shouldn’t have done that in front of Francis—and goes to grab his arm like she’s going to drag him into the rectangle, into that godforsaken chair.

Pritchard has had  _ enough _ . He flicks open his switchblade and levels the blade at Dr. Fisher. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says, and for once, she actually stops. Her hand hovers over Jensen’s augmented bicep as her gaze flicks from Francis’ knife to his scowl.

Francis is a techie, not a a fighter. But he’s also not an idiot, and he knows how to watch his own back. He may not have the Typhoon aug, or even the best aim with a gun, but he’s spent long enough learning how to use a knife. He’s also very,  _ very _ pissed off, and his neural augs are still recording, sending everything to Sarif, who he’s sure is watching this unfold from the safety of his office.

Dr. Fisher seems to read Francis well enough in that moment to realize that he fights the same way he hacks—quick and violent. She slowly backs away from Jensen, and Francis gives her an open-mouthed grin, showing his teeth.

He moves to one side, a little closer to Dr. Fisher than he’d like, and gestures at the open door behind him. 

“Leave,” he says. “That’s a fucking threat.” 

Jensen, still stumbling, crashes into a wall, and hisses through clenched teeth. He’s still holding his neck, even as plaster sprays around him from the sheer force of his body smashing against the wall. Disgusting as it is, Francis recognizes that Dr. Fisher made the smart choice, the  _ strategic  _ choice, in incapacitating him before doing anything else. 

She seems to realize that her virus might not buy her enough time, though, not as much as she needs, because Jensen is pulling himself to his feet―slowly, shakily, but steadily―and clenching his fists and breathing  _ hard _ through flared nostrils. Somewhere along the line, his sunglasses have fallen off, and his regular shades are still retracted.

Francis was right. His eyes  _ are _ burning, despite the obvious sense of glassiness to them, the way they almost seem to be fogged up.

His augs might be turning off, or his Sentinel might be kicking in. Pritchard gets the feeling that they don’t have the time to figure that one out, so he lunges forward. 

Dr. Fisher swings at him, nearly planting the syringe in his neck, and he barely manages to dodge. And of course, she grabs him, and her strength is no match for Jensen’s but she stands a chance against Pritchard, and he stumbles for long enough that she succeeds in pushing him down.

He slams into the floor, bony elbows quickly becoming intimate with grimy linoleum, and grips his knife even more tightly than before. Dr. Fisher is on her knees, now, trying to get at him with the syringe, and he throws his arms up, now-bruised elbows bumping painfully against her grabbing hands. They wrestle like that, uncomfortably, the pain punctuated by hisses and grunts and fresh bruises, and every time she gets the upper hand, even if just for a moment, Francis is filled with more and more fear. He thinks his heart might burst out of his chest, but for the worst possible reason, and when the situation finally,  _ finally _ alters so he is the one with the high ground, he has only seconds to think.

He falters, pressing Dr. Fisher into the floor, struggling to pin her down, and in his moment of hesitation the syringe nearly nicks his neck. In this moment, he panics, and he is faced with a series of options―none of which are ideal, but some less so than others.

He’ll clearly recall the exact  _ shink _ noise his switchblade makes as he jerks his arm back, and the accompanying wet crunch of the blade sinking into Dr. Fisher’s forearm.

She screams, more in shock than in any real agony, and begins to flail even more aggressively than before. It’s to Francis’ benefit, though, because in her frenzy, her skull cracks against the linoleum, and she falls back, unconscious. Blood leaks onto the sleeve of her trench coat, and begins to stain Francis’ fingers, as he hurriedly pulls the knife from her arm. He’s succeeded in doing what he wanted―she’s dropped the syringe in her pain―and he kicks it far away from her as he wipes his switchblade on his blazer. Blood or not, he’s never wearing this hideous thing again.

Francis puts the knife away, drops his offensive, and turns towards Jensen. The man is quite literally on his knees, brows furrowed, teeth clenched almost as tightly as the fist hanging at one side. His other hand is splayed against the cracked wall, trying to support himself, but he’s in a strange in-between state where he can’t stand but won’t let himself fall to the floor again. Francis wastes no time in pulling Jensen to his feet, as carefully as they can afford right now, and he doesn’t miss the way the other man sways. He’s surprisingly light for his size―some of his augmentations must be lighter than their organic counterparts.

He quickly surveys their surroundings. Jensen needs medical attention, and  _ now _ , and this isn’t ideal, but Dr. Fisher is confined to the floor for the time being― _ good _ , Pritchard thinks with a sense of grim satisfaction,  _ she needs a taste of her own medicine― _ and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else around, so it’s worth the risk.

“C’mon, you fucking hulk. Work with me here,” he grumbles, half-carrying and half-dragging Jensen towards the rectangle, and they both jolt as Jensen begins to weakly struggle, trying to get out of Francis’ grip. In any other circumstances, he might have succeeded, but it’s a testament to his current weakness that Francis somehow manages to hold on. 

“No, no―” at this, Francis finds his voice becoming uncharacteristically gentle, in a way he usually doesn’t let it, especially never around Jensen. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Jensen, I’m not―you need medical attention.”

Jensen’s voice is slurred when he finally finds it, as Francis roughly drops him on the unfortunately bloody chair. Apparently, the man in the lab coat didn’t bother to clean up very much after disposing of the corpse, which he must have brought out of the room while Dr. Fisher was showing off the metal detector. Francis thinks―hell, he’d be safe saying he  _ knows _ ―that they both needed therapy before this, but they’re going to need it even more after. Along with a hot shower and, on Francis’ part, a higher dosage of his anxiety meds.

“Pritchard,” Jensen wheezes, “Francis,” and Francis freezes as he searches for tools that aren’t covered in someone else’s internal organs. He can’t remember if Jensen has ever called him by his first name before―he probably has, but certainly not like  _ this _ .

He finds what he needs, and curses under his breath as he turns to Jensen.

“Adam,” he tries, a shiver going up his spine maybe because he’s realizing the gravity of the situation, realizing what’s at stake, and maybe because he’s never let himself be so vulnerable in front of Adam, and the inverse is true, and calling the man by his first name somehow manages to feel oddly foreign and achingly familiar all at once.

Jensen’s― _ Adam’s _ ―eyes meet his, flickering, pained, but he’s awake,  _ aware _ enough to have some idea of what’s happening. 

“Adam,” Francis repeats, letting out a heavy breath that snakes through his windpipe and leaves his lungs falling, his heart sinking with resignation and fear and something else he can’t―or maybe  _ won’t _ ―articulate right now. Urgency blossoms in his voice, the words pushing angrily out of his throat and onto his tongue and through his teeth, maybe a little needlessly harsh. 

“I need you to cooperate with me, because we don’t have a lot of time, and I need to help you. I can’t put you under right now, but a lot of your augs are disabled, so you probably won’t feel all the pain.”

He moves closer, his next words dying on his tongue at the look on Adam’s face. At the fear, the  _ sadness _ in his eyes. And he finds his voice again, he finds his resolve, and he pushes forward even as his own fear and sadness threaten to overwhelm, even as he wants to break down and give up.

“You gonna make a joke?” Adam croaks, and Francis falters as he begins to lay out the tools on the nearest clean surface he can find, a little corner of that steel table. 

“This might sting a little,” Francis says without thinking, only realizing after the words are out of his mouth that he’s echoing some of the first words he spoke to Adam after the man came back from his six-month medical leave. At this point, he realizes that he’s going to need to conserve energy in his augs, so he finally ends the video recording that’s been streaming to Sarif. He hopes the necessary evidence―fuck, they got a lot more than they bargained for coming here―reaches Sarif alright.

Adam grins weakly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that’s painfully raw, all too human― _ he’s vulnerable too _ ―and Francis holds that image in his mind as he peels back the false skin covering up the hexagon in Adam’s forehead and begins to get to work on his augs.

The Sentinel comes first―for lack of any better options, Francis hacks Adam’s Infolink to form a direct interface between the two of them, using power from his own neural augs to bring the Infolink back online, and diverts as much of the man’s bioenergy as he safely can―and then some―to keeping the Sentinel running at peak power. Sure enough, it quickly filters the last of the virus out of Adam’s systems, and Francis lets himself breath a singular sigh of relief as augs stop shutting down. 

But still, most of his systems are offline, and they need to come back online, but they need power to do that―more than Francis can provide, more than Adam’s own body can provide. 

He turns to the next most important thing, the energy converter, and―foolishly ignoring his own warnings―initiates the reboot sequence. 

It only takes a few moments for Adam’s entire body to jerk in the chair, spasming violently, and Francis now understands why the restraints are there even though most of the ‘patients’ would be unconscious. He forces himself to stay as calm as he can, to stay collected, to minimize the shaking of his hands as he ends the reboot sequence, both he and Adam relaxing simultaneously. 

He needs more bioenergy.

There’s a ringing in his ears as he leaves the rectangle to search the drawers in the lab, and it doesn’t take him long to find a few Cyberboost bars―no doubt stashed away for situations when Dr. Fisher had to disable her victims’ augs―but it still feels like he’s wasting precious time. He chances a peek at the doctor herself, and finds that she is safely unconscious on the floor.

Adam is gritting his teeth in pain, letting out a constant low moan of agony, fists clenched against the armrests of the chair. However, he’s still cognizant enough of his surroundings that, as Francis picks up one of his hands and gently unclenches his fingers, he clasps his hand around the offered Cyberboost bar. To Francis’ great relief, he also  _ doesn’t _ crush it to a pulp, and once he gets the wrapper off, he jams the thing in his mouth with a practically ravenous energy.

Francis takes the wrappers off of the others before he sets them down on the armrest, and then he turns his attention back to Adam’s augs.

He doesn’t want to risk booting too many things up in such a short amount of time, but Adam also can’t function, let alone  _ survive _ for long without his energy converter in working order, not to mention…

Francis cuts off his train of thought before he can stress himself out any more by listing every single aug Adam needs back online, and he initiates the reboot sequence on Adam’s energy converter, breathing yet another sigh of relief when it stutters to life. Beside him, Adam inhales yet another Cyberboost bar, and the panic bouncing around Francis’ insides starts to fall back a little bit, fading into something more manageable, a buzzing in the background that makes him want to tap his fingers on something.

He breathes, and he makes a process of it, the same rhythmic steps in booting up every single aug, one at a time. Now that he’s gotten past the hard part, time flashes by, and he starts to lose his comprehension of reality, of time, of anything beyond his hands and the Infolink. Perhaps this isn’t so different from his usual missions.

Approximately six Cyberboost bars and another panic attack later, he steps back from Adam’s arms―he had to physically jack into those to reboot them―to find that he is done, that all systems are online and functional again, and...he almost doesn’t know where to go now. It’s that seemingly inarticulable feeling of almost-emptiness, of skin scrubbed red and raw, of being alone and vulnerable before an uncaring power much greater than himself, of being yanked suddenly back into complete and total silence only after acclimating to the hellish screaming that had surrounded him.

In the chair, Adam’s entire body shudders, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Francis holds his breath. Just as he’s starting to get a little worried all over again, Adam seems to relax a little. His eyelids flutter, and he looks weakly up at Francis.

“Not gonna lie,” he slurs, “I didn’t think I was gonna make it through that.”

Francis, for once, lets his gaze come to rest on Adam’s face. He sighs.

“Were you recording that whole thing?” Adam asks.

“I ended the recording when I started the, ah,  _ emergency surgery _ ,” Francis replies, leaning on the side of the operation chair. “For the record, though, Sarif saw everything before that. Including you asking me if I was going to make a joke, and me sticking a knife into Dr. Fisher’s arm.”

Adam inhales deeply, like he’s going to laugh or cry or  _ something _ , and whatever he was planning on doing is quickly lost to a violent coughing fit. 

“You― _ fuck _ ―you shanked her? For me? Thanks, Fr―Pritchard, I―” he kept coughing “―I never thought you’d do something like that for me.”

Francis rolls his eyes, pretending he’s not slightly hurt by Adam reverting to his usual manner of addressing him. “Yeah, buddy, relish it while you can. I guarantee you I’ll never stab someone for you again unless my own life depends on it.”

Adam gasps, placing a hand over his chest in mock terror, feigning hurt. “And here I thought you cared about me.”

Francis finds himself turning to look Adam directly in the eyes, a fresh bitterness sparked in his heart by those words. “You know,” he hisses, leaning a little too close, “maybe I  _ do _ .” 

For one terrifying moment, their faces are just inches away, and Francis can feel Adam’s breath, hot and shallow, against his neck. He can see every little detail of the technological masterpieces that are his optical augmentations, Adam’s cheekbones sharply illuminated by the green glow of his irises, and it would be so easy for him to just lean a little closer and…

Francis jerks backwards, knees locked, limbs stiff, lips curled into an almost-scowl. 

“Can you stand on your own?” he asks, avoiding Adam’s searching gaze―for once, wishing the man had his shades on―and Adam grunts as he tries to do just that. The answer to this question is, unfortunately, a resounding  _ no _ , and Francis bites his tongue as the two of them slowly make it out of the lab―they have to take the long way through the door that had been left open, which leads them through a very underwhelming office full of unopened boxes―and wait for a cab to come.

They’re both silent, sitting a dangerous few inches apart, for the entire ride back to Sarif Industries, and Francis can’t help but think that he makes terrible moral support, and even worse physical support.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it only took me 15k of hurt to get to the comfort

Francis considers shutting himself in his office to sulk, but he decides that the ease of access might incite some of his colleagues to come after him―specifically, Malik or Sarif, because they’re pretty much the only people at Sarif Industries other than Jensen (Adam? can Francis call him that now?) who have ever given a shit about him. So, after escorting Adam (fuck it, Francis is going to call him that) to medbay and checking via Infolink that Sarif has, in fact, received the evidence he asked for, Francis returns to his apartment. 

It’s fucking terrible. The blinds are halfway open, letting in bands of hazy yellow light as the sun begins to creep towards golden hour, inching closer to the horizon, and he doesn’t even bother to change his clothes before flopping down into his unmade bed. Usually it’s made, but usually he doesn’t actually sleep here. 

All he did before lying down was take off his shoes, put down his hair, and wash down an early dose of his usual anxiety medication with lukewarm tap water. Now, he lies there, and he thinks about the fact that this is very much not his home, and he thinks about how his hands shook more operating on Adam than they did when he plunged his knife―it’s still in the pocket of that disgusting blazer, in a heap on the floor somewhere―into Dr. Fisher’s arm, and he thinks about the fact that he didn’t really mind Adam calling him  _ Francis _ . 

He lies there for some amount of time, he doesn’t know how long, and he silences his cell phone without checking to see what the notifications were after the fourth time it buzzes next to him, sealing the deal by tossing it across the room. It lands in his desk chair, which is arguably more comfortable than the bed―it used to reside in his office, and he only took it out when Sarif gifted him a new chair for his birthday.

The same thoughts loop in his head, and if not for the nerves, he thinks he might have fallen asleep. At some point, though, he forces himself out of bed, piles all his bloodstained clothes on the floor, retrieves the knife from his blazer, and slowly makes his way to the bathroom. 

Francis stares at himself in the mirror, stripped down to his boxers, and realizes just how much pain he’s in. His elbows are purple with bruises, and his arms are stiff―they hurt when he moves them, and the pain when he lifted his turtleneck over his head to take it off made him hiss violently. 

He showers in near complete darkness, not having the energy to reach up for the light and not wanting to open the blinds to let the outside world in, not even a little bit. He scrubs the blood off, his own mixed with Dr. Fisher’s and Adam’s, and he stands there with one hand bracing him against the wall, hair falling in a curtain around his face, as he watches it drain away. Even in the dim light, where hardly any color comes through, he can still make out the darkness of the stuff as it lands on the water, sluicing downwards in a tiny little vortex. 

If not for the fact that his knees have locked up from the way he’s standing, he thinks he might fall over from a combination of exhaustion and simply not being bothered to care.

Eventually, the water begins to go cold, and he rouses himself to turn off the faucet, pull back the curtain, and sit on the edge of the bathtub with a towel wrapped around himself until he’s completely dry. He feels empty, raw, vulnerable, again, but it’s slightly better this time. He’s safe, at least, and he knows Adam is too, and that makes the difference. 

Francis’ chest is just a little lighter, and he can breathe just a little easier, as he digs out a pair of his usual skinny jeans and a turtleneck infinitely more comfortable than the one he’d been wearing earlier. It’s not pajamas, but he doesn’t plan on sleeping.

He doesn’t fully make the bed, just smoothes out the blanket and throws his pillows on top of it before lying down again. 

The light coming in through the window is golden now, and it lands comfortingly in neat rows across the bedroom, and he holds up one slender hand and watches the way it falls over his scraped knuckles and the way it illuminates the miniscule particles of dust that float in the air.

He breathes deeply, and he can hear the way it saturates the room, the way it sinks into the floorboards, mingling with the dust and mixing with the sunlight. He’s relaxed, not in general but at least for this moment, and he only startles for a moment at the sound of someone knocking on his door. 

Francis stares at the window, examining the way the sunlight falls through the blinds. The knocking pauses, and then resumes. It’s not harsh or aggressive, but it’s persistent, as if the person on the other side is trying to respect his privacy while also making sure he’s alright or whatever. 

He sighs, and resigns himself to what he already knows, which is that this is probably...probably  _ not _ Sarif, because he wouldn’t come all the way to Francis’ apartment when someone else could do it, and probably not Adam, because Francis is sure he’s the last person Adam wants to see right now. But part of him knows that it probably  _ is _ Adam, because it only makes sense, even if for reasons Francis can’t quite put into words.

When he unlocks the door and swings it open, his only reaction to seeing Adam there is to sigh deeply. The way the man is standing there, almost awkwardly, makes Francis think he must have a bouquet of flowers hidden behind his back, or some juvenile shit like that, but his hands are stuffed in his pockets. Between medbay and now, he’s also evidently gotten a shower and a fresh change of clothes, but one which doesn’t include one of his classic trench coats. Instead, he’s wearing a plain old leather jacket that looks like something he would have in his closet, but which Francis also never remembers seeing before. It’s nice, and Francis momentarily wonders why he’s fixating on Adam’s physical appearance, but he’s beyond the point of really caring.

“Congratulations,” Francis says, “you didn’t die.”

Adam raises an eyebrow at him. “Thanks for that, I suppose. Can I come in?”

“Do I never get a moment of peace?” Francis grumbles, but he steps to the side and gestures for Adam to come in nonetheless. 

“I texted you, called you,  _ and _ tried your Infolink.”

“I silenced my phone and my Infolink,” he calls back at Adam, making his way back to the bedroom. He doesn’t have a couch, and the only other furniture in the tiny apartment is a coffee table and some uncomfortable plastic chairs. 

Adam, of course, follows him like a lost puppy, and he’s making a face to match when Francis glances back at him. He hesitates in the doorway to the bedroom, obviously unsure about intruding, and Francis gestures vaguely in the direction of his desk as he flops back down onto his bed. It’s golden hour now, the light hazy and warm just before it’ll start to fade away. 

“Chair,” Francis says, half his face in a pillow.

“Your phone is in the chair.” 

“Throw it on the desk or whatever. I don’t give a shit.”

Francis rolls over and fixes his gaze on the window, which is pointedly opposite where―judging by the sound of the chair creaking―Adam is now sitting.

He counts seventeen seconds of silence before Adam speaks.

“I came to thank you. And check in on you, too. I’m not the only one who got hurt today.”

“Yeah?” A number of thoughts come to Francis, and very quickly, and they all sort of bump around in his brain like bees in a hive. Once again, in what seems to be the pattern of the day, there’s too much for him to unpack, so he just says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Well, thanks. And, just so you know, you have zero self preservation. None. I’m surprised you’re still alive sometimes.”

“You think I’m an idiot?” Adam asks. Somehow, he sounds completely unfazed, not even a little hurt, nope, definitely not at all.

Francis hates himself for this, but he says it anyways, because it’s easier than saying―or even really  _ understanding _ ―what he actually feels. “Sometimes, yes.” And then, he snaps a little, voice rising in a crescendo. “Yes, I really do! I think you feel like you have to prove yourself in every possible way, and you don’t always know when to let things go!” 

He sighs. His voice falls back to a lower volume, a morose tone. “Sometimes you have to step back.”

A pause. 

“You don’t exactly have the moral high ground here, Fr―Pritchard.”

There it is again. That almost-slip. He’s right, but Francis isn’t about to admit that.

“You can call me my first name,” Francis says. “I know you’re emotionally stunted, but that’s a bit much.”

“Once again, moral high ground. We’re both emotionally stunted.”

Francis rolls onto his back and stretches his legs. His feet dangle off the end of the bed this way. He folds his arms over his chest and closes his eyes, almost like he’s pretending to be a corpse.

“You thanked me, and you checked in on me,” he says after a long silence. “So why are you still here? What did you  _ really _ come here for?”

In the silence, he can almost hear the light, but maybe he’s just hearing the wind whistling in the distance. The floorboards creak a little―Adam shifting in the chair.

“Answers,” Adam says. “You said you really did care.”

_ Fuck _ , Francis thinks _ , he remembered. _

Well, no backing down now. 

“I did. I do.” Francis rolls onto his other side now, facing Adam for just a few moments. Where he’s sitting, the sunlight doesn’t hit him, only one stray band of light brushing his leg. It’s a shame, really, part of Francis wants to see his face in the light.

Adam looks at the floor. Looks at Francis. Looks past Francis. Looks back at Francis again. “I care too.” A pause, and then, a thoughtful addendum: “Francis.”

Francis turns away from him. “I figured as much. I think...I think we should stop pretending we hate each other.”

He stops. Takes a deep breath. From there, it all spills out in a messy rush. 

“Adam, you’re a fucking idiot sometimes, and you’re madly annoying, and you stress me out more than anyone else I’ve ever known, but I really don’t hate you. I do enjoy the bickering, but I think we work well together, and I actually don’t mind you calling me  _ Francis _ , and I would have missed you if you died. I was terrified of what could happen if the Harvesters got even a little further on you, and I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself knowing you suffered that fate and I could have stopped it. I wasn’t emotionally prepared to stab someone, but all I can think is  _ Well, at least I didn’t kill her, and at least she didn’t kill you _ .”

“I―I’m sorry you had to be put in that situation at all. It was a strange mission,” Adam says. 

“You’ve got that right,” Francis retorts, stretching his arms over his head before rolling over again, and, with a sense of finality and resignation, propping himself up on one elbow to stare at Adam. “You know, I’m grateful we both got out of that in one piece, and I’d rather just go back to the usual setup, but you don’t need to carry everything on your shoulders.”

“I―we both have room for improvement, I suppose,” is Adam’s quiet response, and Francis lets out a sigh, but this time it’s not exasperated or pained. Mostly, it’s just tired. And he agrees.

“Anyways,” Francis says, pulling back a little bit into his usual defense mechanisms, “that was the most emotion either of us has shown in the last three years combined, so if there’s nothing else you should be talking to a licensed social worker about, I assume you’d be best off leaving me to finish having this mental breakdown in peace. This is my house, not yours.”

“This doesn’t look like much of a home,” Adam says. 

“I said  _ house _ , not  _ home _ . Technically, it’s an apartment. I don’t have a home to hide in, unless I hole up in my office, and then Sarif or Malik or somebody will bother me. You know. People who are slightly less ridiculously persistent than you.”

Another pause, less awkward than the last. More content. The light is beginning to fade as the sun edges behind the distant horizon, making way for the moon. What’s left is golden-grey, and warm, and Francis wants to wrap himself up in it and fall asleep in that comfort and safety. 

“Well,” Adam says, “do you want to come somewhere that can actually be called a home?”

Francis hesitates, and then snorts. “I’ve seen your apartment, Jensen. It’s not much more homey than this.”

“Well, at least I have a couch. And food.”

“Cereal and whiskey? You call that  _ food _ ?” Francis asks, and he can’t help the smile that overtakes his face in that moment. To his surprise, Adam smiles too, and then begins to laugh. Not one of those half-assed snorts either, but an actual, real, laugh. Francis wants to keep that with the fading sunlight, too, because it makes him feel the same way. Warm. Safe.

“We can get some actual food, too,” he offers, still smiling furiously.

Francis flops onto his back again, letting his arms fall out into a T. 

“At this point, you might as well just come out and ask me on a date already, Jensen.” Adam shifts somewhere that Francis can’t see. Floorboards creak. Francis can practically hear the awkwardness in the other man’s silence. Then: 

“You know, maybe I should. I’d like that, actually.”

Francis’ heart, which has finally begun to return to its normal behavior after his anxiety meds kicked in, stutters violently.

“Seriously? I didn’t take you as the type to be attracted to…”

“Men?” Adam fills in.

“The type like me, actually.”

“Well, I didn’t take you as the type to be attracted to the type like me, either, and here we are.” That’s an assumption, Francis thinks, but it’s a correct assumption, and they both know that. Somehow, he isn’t as surprised as he feels like he should be. He takes one last poke at the probably-not-sleeping-anymore beast: “Anything else?”

The floorboards creak again. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

Francis pushes himself up onto his elbows and stares. Part of him expects laughter, to find that this is all some cruel joke or that he’s hit his head and started hallucinating, but he only finds earnest hope in Adam’s eyes. 

He flops back down onto the bed, head hitting the pillow, and sighs. 

“You asshole,” he says, “come here.” He throws up a hand, still half expecting nothing to happen.

Adam is kissing him, and going to his place really seems like a good deal, now that Francis thinks about it. His hand is cupping the back of Adam’s head now, and― _ oh _ ―Adam’s fingers are gently, carefully entangled in his hair, and this is actually very nice.

It occurs to Francis that a) he didn’t factor in the facial hair when he thought about kissing Adam before, and b) somewhere in the deep recesses of his brain, probably when he was too sleep-deprived to consciously remember it, he has thought about kissing Adam before.

The real thing is much better.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> epilogue.

_ “...calling itself the Windsor Pro-Humanity Group attempted to establish an office in Detroit, only to be shut down after luring two augmented individuals to its laboratory and attempting to murder both. It had murdered at least one other augmented individual in the past for the purpose of harvesting and selling the augmentations. A woman falsely claiming to be a doctor was arrested, along with an undisclosed number of corporate workers and two other ‘doctors’. Meanwhile…” _

Francis puts down the news article after only briefly glancing at it. It’s been a few months since the incident, but it’s only being covered by mainstream news now that all the legal proceedings are done with. Nodding at the person running the news stand, he stuffs his hands in the pocket of his leather jacket―especially after that horrible blazer, he’s glad to have his usual clothing back―and continues the walk from Sarif Industries to the Chiron Building. It’s what, thirty years ago, would have been a normal day, but is now uncommonly cold. Aside from the troubling reality of global warming, Francis enjoys being able to step outside without overheating instantly, thank you very much. One would expect him to run cold, and for Adam to run hot, but in a humorous twist, the opposite is true―Adam’s augs are colder than organic body mass, and Francis’ childhood in New England, combined with a fast metabolism, means that he overheats easily. One would  _ also _ think that they cancel each other out to make for comfortable spooning, and thankfully, this is very true. 

Well, usually. Sometimes Francis’ leg (bare, very warm) will brush against Adam’s (not made of flesh, icy cold) when he’s half asleep and he’ll wind up accidentally kicking Adam in his shock and then one or both of them will inevitably get a limb or three tangled in the blankets.

Mostly, though, they adjust to each other, in keeping with the second law of thermodynamics, and falling asleep with his head on Adam’s chest is superior to both the bed in his old apartment and the couch in his office. 

He hasn’t sold his apartment yet; he’s not quite ready to let go of that part of his life, and he doesn’t want to move too fast despite the fact that he sleeps at Adam’s apartment more often than not these days. He still sleeps in his office sometimes, but Adam sometimes goes off on missions of varying levels of  _ classified _ and is nothing but radio silence for days at a time. Usually, both of these occurrences are simultaneous. And anyways, Adam’s apartment is more than a place to sleep, as exemplified by Francis’ clothes scattered across the place, the extra toothbrush and cup in the bathroom, the Neuropozyne in the drawer with both of their meds. It’s a place to live. It’s comfortable. It’s  _ safe _ .

They still bicker. Probably more than they used to, because they see a lot more of each other now. Most of the old bite to it is gone, though. They’re both getting better about talking about their feelings, especially when they slip up.

Francis notices that they both laugh a lot more these days.

A cold breeze blows past him, and despite enjoying the weather, he’s glad for his jacket. Adam left work before he did, having finished up everything he needed to do while Francis was still wrestling with some particularly tedious bugs in the firewalls.

He doesn’t mind the separation so much; he thinks they’d get fed up with each other if they were glued to each other’s sides 24/7. A little space and time means it’s that much better when they  _ do _ see each other, anyways.

Such as now―or soon, at least. The elevators in the Chiron Building are painfully slow.

_ Welcome home, Mr. Jensen _ , the security system greets Francis when he enters Adam’s apartment―they aren’t married, far from it this early into their relationship, but when Francis discovered the bug while adding his biosignature to the system, he found it too hilarious to fix. ( _ “It thinks I’m you, Adam! Your fancy-ass security system can’t tell the difference between us!” “Well, it could, if only you fixed that bug.” “Oh, hell no, I’m leaving this in, and I’m gonna confuse the  _ hell  _ out of myself when I stumble in here sleep-deprived at two in the morning.”) _

“Honey, I’m home!” Francis calls in the most ironic, sing-song voice he can muster, tossing his jacket over the back of the couch (black leather hides bloodstains very well, but not as well as one might think) and dropping his boots by the door. There’s the sound of a chair against the floorboards, and then Adam pokes his head out of the bedroom. 

“That was  _ horrible _ ,” he says, “never do that again.”

Francis snorts. “Love you too,  _ asshole _ .”

They both break into laughter, and Francis makes his way across the room, where he’s more than happy to melt into the embrace Adam offers him, as well as the subsequent kiss.

“Anything fun happen today?” Adam asks, flopping down on the couch, and Francis groans in response as he does the same. 

“Firewalls are still bothering me,” he says, “you?”

“Same shit as always. It’s monotonous, but it’s kind of a relief not having to deal with anything huge.”

“Oh, do I feel  _ that _ . Speaking of which, the Windsor group bullshit was on the news. I guess Sarif finally got done bringing all his corporate fury down on them, so I think it’s safe to say that mission was successful.”

Adam fixes Francis with a look.

“What? Okay, fine, successful  _ at a cost. _ But consider this: we both talked about our emotions like responsible adults, and we also finally got together, and I’d count both of those things as successes.”

Adam smiles―a genuine expression, one that reaches his eyes. He’s been doing that a lot more lately. He’s also been keeping his shades retracted a lot more lately, showing the world his eyes. Francis knows it’s hard for him sometimes, so he makes sure to remind Adam how much he loves his eyes whenever he thinks the other man needs it―and then some, because he really  _ does _ love Adam’s eyes.

“That’s the spirit,” Francis says.

They both laugh, and Francis leans back, into the couch, into Adam’s side. Outside, a cloud finishes passing over the sun, and the resulting light comes in full force through the windows, blinds open and pushed up, falling over both of them.

Despite the cold outside, the sunlight is as warm as ever.


End file.
